Ayòdéjì Israel

Wind

All morning, I do the work I love.
I didn't get out of bed but bed gets out
of me. My bedsheets smell
of sweat. My room reeks of fear.
The radio carries the body of the people
I love. I am asleep all night,
while my friends are flesh
in the mouth of a dog. I drag my pillow
while hungry bullets dig my friends’ bodies
in search of food. My mother
in the wind. My father is digging the sky
in search of heaven. My sisters have fled
the village. I look for them
in the morning. I pluck the news
from the TV. Something about my mom
might be hiding in its mouth.
My siblings might be waiting
for the chance to sneak out
of the reporter’s lips. They might have
been swallowed by the terrorists’ guns.
All morning, I look for my friends
under the rubble, under the crumbled
bricks and the crippled pillars,
under the giant tree where we play ludo
in the evening.

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